


Poor Petyr

by arabellavidal



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 'Cos no one knows they're not siblings, Attempt at Humor, Book Canon elements, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon is dazed, Littlefinger is worried, Sansa's Revenge, Sorry Not Sorry, Spoilers 6x10, Tormund is amused, and happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 13:58:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8164372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabellavidal/pseuds/arabellavidal
Summary: In answer to the prompt on valar-morekinks round 8: Sansa gets sick of Petyr's comparisons of her looks to her mother's and decides to go in the other direction, gaining weight like her aunt Lysa. Jon's glad it works to get Petyr to leave her alone, and he also finds he likes it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely happy with the second part but I really had fun torturing Littlefinger. Unbeta'd. You have been warned.

Petyr looked on in growing dismay as the Lady of Winterfell ate every bit of the boar covered in drippings and what looked like half a loaf of bread on the plate she shared with the King in the North. Petyr glanced at the king, who kept sneaking bewildered looks at his half-sister, while sipping at his wine and talking to Lady Mormont seated beside him. He would have thought that the king would have more of a reaction to Sansa's increasingly savage eating habits.   
  
Over the past few days Petyr had noticed how his lady love had slowly abandoned etiquette, as well as eating utensils, during meals. She ate the richest of the fare as if she was a wildling yahoo on the verge of starvation who had every expectation of never being able to access food for the next few days.   
  
The Lady of Winterfell suddenly lunged in the king's direction, grabbing the goblet of rich Arbor gold (a gift from Petyr) from his lightly gripping fingers (Jon had learned to not hold the goblet too firmly the past few days), and gulped every last drop. The cup bearer who had become superbly alert these days lunged forward, in his turn, to fill the empty chalice.   
  
And so it went on as the courses were brought out. Jon would manage to eat enough to decently fill his stomach while Sansa tried to make sure he didn't.

                                                                           

Petyr increasingly acquired a permanently pained expression as Sansa's manners deteriorated over the next few days. During council meetings, she would gobble whatever was available -mostly sweetmeats- and speak with her mouth full, if at all. She would send maids running to the kitchens through all hours of the day and night in search of mid-meal snacks.  
  
Everyone had noticed this strange behaviour in the formerly beautifully-behaved lady of the castle but were not nearly as stunned as Petyr, who could see his beloved's lovely, svelte figure thicken as each day passed. Her gowns were being let out and the necklines lowered in order to accommodate her growing bosom, giving him a sense of deja vu.   
  
And then the worst that he could ever have imagined happened one day as he was despairingly roaming the corridors of Winterfell, wondering if he should urge the bastard king to talk to Sansa about her growing... well, everything. Although it seemed rather strange that the royal nincompoop kept piling food he was unlikely to eat on their plate...  
  


 

"Peeetyrr!"   
  
_Lysa?_  
  
He turned towards the shrill, offensive voice.   
  
" _Sansa?_ " he gasped in a horrified tone.  
  
"Oh, Peetyrr! Whatever is the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost!" she said with overwhelming concern. Then, shockingly, she attached her now tall, fleshy frame to his side, wrapping an arm tenderly around his shoulders.  
  
Petyr was speechless. And uncomfortable, because now the comparison with Lysa had entered his mind he could not let go of it. Her breath, which used to be fresh and luscious, now hit his nose with all the force of the pungent, cheap ale she must have been drinking with her thick-headed brother.   
  
As she cuddled and cooed over his flabbergasted state, Petyr was suddenly struck by the notion that _he_ might partly be responsible for her condition. Just as Lysa had become gross after the various traumas she underwent, so was Sansa reacting to her ordeal at Ramsay's hands. So now, instead of a younger version of the graceful Catelyn, he now had a younger version of the tentacular Lysa.  
  
"Unhand me, young lady!" he hissed angrily and was just about to shove her plump form off himself for which he placed his hands on her waist when something even worse happened.  
  
"GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF HER, YOU PERVERT!" and he was bodily flung across the corridor and into the wall by a furious, red-faced monarch.  
  
"Sansa? Are you alright? He didn't harm you?" Petyr heard from his dazed position against the wall.  
  
"Oh no, Jon! I'm perfectly fine. But I think you may have broken poor Petyr's head," she responded.  
  
" _Poor Petyr_? You're on first-name basis with him now, are you? Sansa, he sold you to the Boltons and is now trying to paw you himself in the hallways. I will not have it! It's indecent and if I see even his littlest finger anywhere near your person I will do more than break his head!" Petyr could now focus his eyes again and saw the bastard clutching her arms tightly and looking very fierce.   
  
Sansa seemed unfazed. "He wasn't pawing at me, Jon. In fact, the only person who touches me more than he does is you." The bastard stilled in shock. "Honestly, Jon, if you weren't my brother, I would almost say you were jealous." He let go of her abruptly and stepped back.  
  
"Bastard half-brother," Petyr croaked as he tenderly felt the back of his head.  
  
"WHAT did you say?" The King in the North was now almost purple in the face.  
  
Petyr held up his hand. "I have no intention of fighting you over the affections of your bovine- er, I mean divine half-sister and was on my way to inform you that I must return to the Vale as soon as I can to resume my duties as Lord Protector."  
  
"Oh, but Peetyrr, you cannot travel with a head injury!" Petyr and Jon both winced at the shrill tone. "Let me take you to the maester," she continued, moving towards him.   
  
Jon bristled and Petyr took several quick steps back, causing his vision to blur once more. He was holding out his arms to prevent her touch, when Jon stepped between them as an unexpected hero in Petyr's eyes.  
  
"Sansa, no!" the dignified king ordered. "If he wants to leave, let him go!"  
  
"But Jon..."  
  
"Don't _but Jon_ me about this! I am your king and I'm telling you he needs to leave!"  
  
"He might die if he doesn't have his head examined!" she shrieked like the commonest fishwife on the Blackwater wharfs, arms akimbo.  
  
By now, several people including the red-haired wildling and the digitless smuggler, had gathered curiously around them. Petyr had had enough.  
  
"I will take that risk, my lady, for the sake of the realm and now I must bid you farewell for I must see to my departure immediately." He gave a wobbly bow in the king's direction. "I am forever in your debt, your Grace, for saving me - er, the realm from the perfidy of the Boltons. Good ridd- I mean, good bye."  
  
He rushed away, cutting through the crowd and hurried towards his suite as fast as his dizzy head allowed him.   
  
                                                                                         88888888888888888888888888  
  
Tormund looked admiringly at the newly ravishing Lady of Winterfell as she fell into a fit of giggles making her figure quiver delightfully in all the right places while Jon stood uncertainly at her side.   
  
"Er, Sansa? Are you alright?" he extended a concerned hand to her shoulder only to suddenly withdraw it, his face flushing a bright red.  
  
"Never better!" she chuckled contentedly and put her arm through Jon's ( _lucky bastard!_ ). Jon visibly gulped and seemed to move a tiny bit closer to her as they walked off in the direction of the royal solar.  
  
"Lady Stark seems to be acting very strange lately," Davos commented uneasily.  
  
"Nonsense, man!" Tormund whacked him on his back. "She's blooming perfect, she is! If you don't believe me, just ask your king!"  
  
And he strode away booming with laughter.


End file.
